Rae Armantrout

Double

So these are the hills of home. Hazy tiers  
nearly subliminal. To see them is to see  
double, hear bad puns delivered with a wink.  
An untoward familiarity.
 
Rising from my sleep, the road is more
and less the road. Around that bend are pale  
houses, pairs of junipers. Then to look
reveals no more.
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